


Keeping Count

by Theobule (Saathi1013)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Firefly, Serenity (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4281357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Theobule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Serenity comes across strange and significant salvage, and things get more complicated than her crew could have possibly predicted.  Except River, because River always knows.</p><blockquote>
  <p>They’re halfway through the black when a star flashes bright in the port, winking back out just as quick. Its glare is such that Mal thinks it’s an afterimage when he sees the ship.</p>
  <p>Big, big as Alliance or maybe bigger, and Mal swears long and quiet when the alarms go off.</p>
  <p>“Pottymouth,” River giggles, without breaking her awe-filled gaze at the ship, “That’s no way to talk in front of <i>children.</i>”</p>
</blockquote>Or: how these two universes might dovetail, with <i>slightly</i> less hand-waving than one might expect.  Part of a larger WiP that I may or may not continue; this may suffice on its own.
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Count

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after Serenity (in the Firefly 'verse) and JUST before the last scene of 'Revelations,' s4e12 of the reimagined Battlestar Galactica 'verse (ie, this diverges significantly from BSG canon starting just before they arrive at Earth).
> 
> This work has not been beta'd, but errors, if pointed out, will be corrected with alacrity.

They arrive to find the settlement barren, cracked open like a melon, rind hollowed out. Oily black smoke and gouges in the earth like a signature they read on fly-by, but they land anyway. Just in case.

“Reavers,” Jayne mutters, and spits on a smoldering ruin like he’ll both put out the fire and cleanse his mouth of the word with it. Someone else whispers a string of oaths - sounds like Kaylee, so Mal acts like he don’t hear. Simon and River come back shortly after; bloodhound and medic with no survivors to report.

Just like that, no job, no fuel money, the same vapors fillin’ their tank as their kitchen. Zoe goes to take stock and ration.

“What happens when streams cross?” River asks Mal in the hold, when he locks the hatch down against the black and the ash.

“They join up,” Mal replies absently, thoughts already working the math to the next Border planet. Closer to shortcut in than swing around the Rim, though he doesn’t look forward to the more-likely run-in with Alliance patrols. “Form a river.” He focuses on the girl, hearing his own last word clear.

“When rivers cross?” Her eyes are smiling, unworried; she’s trying to reassure him.

“Reckon we got enough water to last us, understand? It’s food and fuel we need, or coin to pay for ‘em.”

“A person can last 3 weeks without food, but only 3 days without water,” she replies, matter-of-fact, like he don’t know.

“Right. Best get up to the bridge. Oughta lift soon.” She nods, obedient-like, and swings away up the stairs, humming.

“One for sorrow,” she sings, “two for mirth…”

***

They’re halfway through the black when a star flashes bright in the port, winking back out just as quick. Its glare is such that Mal thinks it’s an afterimage when he sees the ship.

Big, big as Alliance or maybe bigger, and Mal swears long and quiet when the alarms go off.

“Pottymouth,” River giggles, without breaking her awe-filled gaze at the ship, “That’s no way to talk in front of _children_.” She’s excited, no sign of preternatural knowledge setting her off into panicked frenzy, so Mal eases a fraction. He calls Zoe up for level-headed consult.

“Unidentified ship,” the computer chimes, as if they can’t tell. It’s shaped like two radial triads stacked atop one another, and it must be damaged, five arms broken at irregular points and the last flickering with weak power.

“River, any Reavers about?” He asks, evaluating the damage. Too clean for Reavers, he thinks, but his skin’s still crawling from seeing the settlement’s remains.

She shakes her head without checking the scans. He’ll trust her on it, not wanting to take his eyes off the impossible. “Broke from inside, Mal,” River says, “Trying to find a safe nest to fix broken wings.”

“See if you can get ‘em on comms,” Mal says, hearing Zoe on the stairs. “Best tell ‘em there ain’t no such place.”

***

There’s no response to their hails, and no sign anyone’s even alive to pull a trigger if they board. “Looks like new tech, sir,” Zoe says, after a quiet moment of inspection. Mal’s gratified by her evaluation; it mirrors his own. New tech means parts, food, fuel, and maybe some gear to sell off quiet. No guarantees, though, but they don’t have the luxury of passin’ up an opportunity that lands in their lap.

“I don’t like it,” Jayne rumbles. Calling Zoe up meant getting the rest of the peanut gallery, but their opinions don’t factor just yet.

“Sister,” River insists. She’s gripping her seat like she’s anchoring herself to the here-and-now, urgency coloring her gaze. “Sisters and brothers, children with heart and soul broken. Took a leap. Need our _help_.”

“Captain, if there are survivors on board-” Simon starts, but Mal waves him off, mind already made up.

“Right. Jayne, River, suit up. All goes well, I’ll call the rest as needed.” Zoe lays a hand on his arm, and he stares right back. “Zoe, you lift if you don’t hear from us in half an hour. Come back when you got the means.” _Probably never_ , he’s saying, _but no orders against_. “And Jayne?” Mal calls, just before the other man leaves earshot, “Bring Vera.”

Zoe can’t quite suppress her grin as Jayne’s excited holler echoes down the hall. “Mighty easy, gettin’ that man’s spirits up.”

“Can’t hurt any,” Mal replies in agreement. “River, find us a place to land.”

***

Takes some doing, convincing River to suit up; Mal threatens to leave her behind ‘less she do, and she settles some. “And any more fuss, I’ll let Jayne send you home gift-wrapped,” Mal adds, and ignores Simon’s rolling eyes.

Turns out, they don’t need suits anyway. The halls are empty, clean and shiny like Alliance but a tipped-in slant to the walls like every deck’s by the hull. Mal reports a whole lotta nothin’ every five minutes, and Zoe repeats the same on her end from the close-range scans. River drifts ahead, chattering all the while.

“Trees,” she says, trailing fingers along the walls, “Green and shiny. Home for six, and church for three.”

“If you say so, little girl,” Jayne grumbles. “Look like walls t’me.”

Mal tunes them out, checking branches as make their way down the corridor. There’s something to what she said about church, though, this place bein’ so quiet it unsettles his gut like they’re trespassing. He counts off distance in his head as he goes, and by the time they’re halfway to the central axis, he starts seeing rubble. Piles of metal scrap at doorways that look like empty suits of armor, blockading the doorways to rooms in piles so high they can’t see in.

“Hello?” He calls into the first, but there’s no answer, not even a rustle or step to give away an ambush. River crows in triumph, a little further down, and darts around a corner outta sight.

“Dammit,” he mutters, and chases the girl down while Jayne covers their flank. She’s up and over a pile of scrap before he can catch her, but he scrambles less gracefully after to see find the room filled with bodies. It’s a slaughterhouse, well-dressed figures slumped over each other and the Spartan furniture in the room with no weapons at hand.

He checks the pulse at three wrists before he realizes something’s wrong - beyond the obvious, a’course. All the women closest to him are troublingly alike. Not identical - there’s a mix of brunette shades and a fair head here’n there, but their faces under the blood and shocked expressions are too similar for anything less than family.

“Sisters?” Mal asks, echoing back River’s earlier words.

She nods, crouching low to smooth dark hair back from a different face. “Sisters and brothers,” she confirms. He spots two other types - one pan-asian woman and one stocky man - but those are more uniform than the leggy, angular woman at his feet. “Robots,” River says, straightening abruptly just as he hears the rustle of someone hoisting themselves over the rubble.

Mal turns to look, quip dying on his lips as he realizes it’s not Jayne - it’s the scrap moving on its own. “Aw, _crap_ ,” he grits, looking for a place to aim. The armored figure shakes off its brethren and steps forward with a lurch, clearly still injured from the earlier firefight.

Its hands spin from fingers like needles into a foldout gun, and Mal squeezes off a shot that ricochets in a displeasin’ way. He ducks behind one low bench, seeing River peeking out from another, clearly unsettled.

“Jayne!” Mal shouts. “Where’re you and your lady-friend?” He hears a shout from down the corridor, and clanking footsteps. Then more gunshots. Mal ducks lower to avoid the ones coming at him, and fires wildly over his barricade.

There’s a clatter, and some whirring and scraping. Mal ventures a look. Then Jayne’s standing in the doorway with a satisfied smirk, Vera still smoking in his hand. “Long time no see,”he says.

Mal musters some dignity and stands. “Long enough. You’n Vera take the scenic route?”

“Yup, found us a tinman down the hall!” Jayne says, causing River to giggle.

“There’s robots _everywhere_ ,” she points out.

“How many still movin’?” Mal asks her, only half in jest, putting another bullet in the twitching figure at his feet, right through the softer-looking neck joint. Its eye-visor glows brighter red for a moment and then dims for good. The wound leaks thick red oil, like liquid rust, and he looks away.

“Plenty alive,” she replies. “Not many moving.” She tips her head to the side, as if she’s listening. “We should go.” She slips past Jayne before either can reply.

“You notice a lot of these folks are ladies?” Jayne asks, looking down at the body sprawled at his feet. “Swanky digs, nice clothes, heavy guard… Companions, maybe? Damn shame if they was.”

Mal frowns. “Shame either way,” he replies, pointed and unamused. Jayne glances away, and Mal walks out to follow River deeper into the ship.

“Huh, looks like these two were twins,” he hears Jayne mutter behind him. “ _Waitaminute…_ ”

***

River takes them to what looks like a control room, only a few of the tinmen at the door, two facing out at the third. Most of the people here look like they fell asleep where they stood, slumped to the floor - bullets having felled only a handful among the two dozen. Mal finds a new face, too - dark skinned, waving black hair cascading over her shoulders, unique among the rest. All the living are sleeping deeply, unresponsive to shouts or the none-too-gentle face-slaps Mal administers.

“Zoe, come on over with the others, got some people need seein’ to,” Mal radios back. “Looks like we should keep lookin’, get all the living in one place for the Doc. I think we can move ‘em.”

There aren’t many more occupied rooms, as far as Mal feels like searching. He can’t afford to search the whole gorram place, after all. The survivors are all in the same state - sleeping deep, oblivious. By the time the rest of his crew finds them, Mal and Jayne have consolidated most into the control room, tagged the rooms with corpses with red flags from the gear. Red for corpses, orange for the ailin’, and green for salvage. Not much of the latter, ‘less Kaylee wants to break open hatches or pick apart tinmen, but there are some rooms that look like personal space, effects in a small duffel or carryall at the end of the bed.

“Any idea, Doc?” Mal asks after half an hour of haulin’ and searchin’.

“No, aside from the bullets holes I patched up. They’re simply… asleep.” Simon shrugs and offers a bloodstained pan. “The bullets.” Mal’s seen the casings and knows what’s coming, but he checks anyway.

“Not Alliance,” he confirms aloud.

“Not even close. I mean, a bullet’s a bullet, but that’s not a standard-issue caliber anywhere I’ve seen.” Which is a lot farther’n he’d been before finding _Serenity_.

“Same by me, doc. Thanks.” Mal slips the bullets into his pocket, familiar rolling weight knocking against his leg. “Seen your sister lately?”

“Captain,” Zoe says from the door, quiet and clear but he tell she’s spooked by how she’s gripping her belt by her gun. “Might want to take a look.”

***

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Mal says, staring into the room. Three more bodies - or two and a half, he corrects, walking closer to the third. Two are lying on the floor, one man with a bullet graze to the temple, courtesy of the tinman by the door, and a woman, sleeping like the rest. Both are unique.

The woman submerged in the tub in the floor is... _beyond_ unique. She’s stirring in her sleep, arms moving languidly beneath the viscous surface, and below the waist, he sees mechanical parts shifting with her. River’s kneeling at her head, crooning softly. _“Big_ sister,” she says, glancing up at Mal as he approaches. “Dreaming, always dreaming.”

“Get the doc and Kaylee up here,” he whispers. “ _Zoe!”_ She starts, nods, and trots off at an easy jog.

The man on the floor shifts at the sound of Mal’s raised voice, groaning. Tries to sit up, then spots them and scrambles back against the wall.

“Are you with the Fleet?” He asks, accent high and mighty but voice laced with terror. He’s got no weapon close by, so Mal holsters his own gun and holds his hands out empty.

“Alliance? Not hardly.”

“Alliance, yes, that’s what we could have called it,” the man babbles. “Cylons and humans, allied under God’s will…” He brings focus back to Mal. “Then are- _are_ you from Earth? The- the remnants of the thirteenth tribe?” He almost jumps when he sees River, right next to him all quick and quiet.

“Earth died, we left,” River replies before Mal can digest what the man said. “Found new homes awhile back, just found you. Drifting and sleeping, all.”

“Oh, thank you God-” the man starts, eyes fixing on the ceiling. Mal rolls his eyes.

“Enough o’ that, I don’t got much patience for religious talk, but I’ll make up for it with questions.” It takes a second to sort out which to ask first.

“D’Anna!” The man cries, before he can say anything, crawling over to the unconscious woman.

“Hey! Doc’s coming, but if she’s like the others, she’s just sleeping, no way to wake her.” Mal hasn’t tallied the dead on board, but knows not to tell this jumpy fella about the slaughter they’ve seen. “Now, what’s your name?”

“Baltar,” the man answers, hand tenderly ghosting across the woman’s face. “Doctor Gaius Baltar.” Excellent, another fancy doc holdin’ keys to a mystery.

“Good, and that woman’s D’Anna. Who’s the girl in the tub?” Oh, this is just bringin’ up too many shades of no-good déjà-vu.

“The Hybrid, she’s - you could call her the computer core. She doesn’t have a name, really.”

“Stands with one foot in both worlds,” River says agreeably, “Sees the stars singing and counts their names. No name for herself.” She starts the counting song again, softly, drifting back to the woman in the floor like she’s coaxing it awake with her lullaby.

Baltar watches her go with an unreadable look, but then Simon and Kaylee come in, and any further questions are stilled.

“Doctor Baltar, meet my medic and my engineer,” Mal says as Simon’s hands are busy, breaking open his kit and getting to work on the stranger. “Kaylee, I need your eye here.”

Kaylee spots the Hybrid quick, and falls to her knees beside it, hand over her mouth and eyes big as saucers. “Holy _shit,_ ”she whispers, swallowing hard a few times. Mal wonders if Zoe gave warning before sendin’ them here, but really, how do you explain this right?

“You’ve seen the tinmen, Kaylee?” She nods. “The nice twitchy man over there calls this girl a Hybrid, so I’m thinking she’s got some parts broke.”

“Cap’n, the tinmen were all _guts_ inside,” she says hesitantly, “Don’t know what good I’d do with that.”

“Here,” River says, pulling open a hatch in the floor at the foot of the tub. Mal can see hoses and thick cables snaking in the right direction, and nods towards it.

“Somewhere to start, Kaylee. See what you can do.” He leaves her to it, and goes to stand over Simon and Baltar. “How’s he look, doc?” Both men look up, but his attention’s on his own medic. “Up to some friendly conversation?”

“He’ll need some more rest before he does anything strenuous, but he’s good to speak and can walk.” Simon ties off the last stitch in the furrow along the man’s hairline, and the man jerks. “Not really a good patient, I’ll tell you that.”

“Hey, you aren’t even using any anesthetic! Are those tools even _sterile?”_ The man’s voice rises an octave, and Mal tries to remember if Simon was ever this tetchy.

“All yours, Captain Reynolds,” Simon gives him a look of ill humor and goes over to D’Anna.

“Good, excellent, you’re the captain, you’re in charge here - for God’s sake, be careful with her, she’s the only one left!” Baltar addresses Simon with the last, and Mal can see his medic’s spine stiffening into iron.

“I think I’ll take her to be with the others,” Simon says coldly, hoisting D'Anna in a fireman’s carry, gentle but with the strength that Mal forgets, sometimes.

“Good idea,” Mal agrees.

And Simon’s away, down the hall, River drifting after. “Two for mirth,” she sings, voice eerie when it echoes through the corridor, “Three for a wedding…”

“Others? Where - where are the others? Is there something wrong with them?” Baltar makes a move to follow, but Mal’s grip is iron on his arm.

“Stranger,” he says firm and clear. “Best be still so we can talk civilized, understand?Looks like you’ve been attacked, and I’d like to get some idea of what’s happened here.” Baltar looks down at Mal’s hand, still locked tight, then his gun, and nods slowly, backing away to sit against the wall.

“Fine, _yes. Frak._ What do you need to know?” Baltar draws knees to his chest and folds his arms atop them, eyes tired and resigned.

“Who - or what - are you people?” Mal spares a glance at Kaylee, elbow-deep in the hatch, already caught up in the puzzle.

“I’m a human, one of the survivors of the Twelve Tribes of Kobol. The people I’m with are Cylons - uh, a kind of robots. There are twelve models.”

“Explains the resemblance,” Mal says. “I’ve seen six types so far: the tinmen, your hybrid, and four others. What about the rest?”

“No, I’m sorry. Twelve _full humanoid_ models. The Centurions and the Hybrids aren’t one of the Twelve.” The man is babbling, now, like the weight on his shoulders is made of words and he can’t wait to be rid of ‘em. “The Cylons attacked the colonies, and followed the surviving fleet to our new-” his voice breaks, briefly, and Mal takes note. “…our new colony, tried to rule us. With force. We escaped again, tried to find Earth. We wanted to find the Thirteenth Tribe, join the last humans, find a home. Find peace.” Baltar lets his head drop down to rest on his arms, and Mal thinks he might be crying. “The Cylons… disagreed about what to do with us, and civil war broke out. The rebel Cylons joined the humans, and we set off to find Earth together.” He looks up, and there are no tears on the man’s face, just a deep emptiness in his eyes. “The others caught up with us as we arrived. Turned our Centurions against us and opened fire on our ships. We jumped from the battle, I don’t know where to. It was a rough jump, I don’t know why. That’s all I remember.”

“So you and your ‘bots are on the wrong side of a rebellion?” Mal says, and sees Kaylee sit up, hearing the last bit. Baltar laughs, low and bitter.

“You could say that, I suppose. Yes.” Baltar drops his head back down to the cradle of his arms.

“Just our luck,” Mal sighs, scrubbing a palm across his cheek.

“Cap’n.” Kaylee’s voice breaks in. “I think I got her figured. Just need my kit.”

“Be back quick, Kaylee,” Mal says, watching Baltar. “Sir, we might be able to get your girl there runnin’ - but I don’t know how much good that’ll do ya. Seems like we got a few options.”

“Which are?” Baltar’s voice is cold and brittle, muffled by his arms. He doesn’t look up.

“For starters, we get you movin’ again and point you towards the Core. Alliance might help you out, but like as not, will take your ship and question you while they take your Cylon folk apart. No guarantees either way.”

“Sunny proposition, as I’m the only human on board.” Mal nods in agreement. “What else?”

“We get you movin’, you go back wherever you came from and help your people. We know some on the Rim with ships and firepower, if you have the coin - you go back, guns blazin’, and we get a finder’s fee for our assistance,” Mal says, already thinking of the first three stations to hit up for merc ships. “Though we’d appreciate a drop o’fuel for all the help we’re already givin’, frankly.”

“And what help would that be, exactly?” Gaius looks up, furious. “Lining up the sleepers in another room, shaking your head about what you’d like to do, but, _sorry_ , you haven’t the foggiest how?”

“Is that right?We put down a few of your less’n friendly tinmen, you gorram ingrate,” Mal retorts, one hand on his holster and the other gesturing, colorfully. Kaylee walks in and stops a few steps in, uncertain after being greeted with raised voices. “Did what we could to patch up what bullet holes we found in your people, and now I’ve got my mechanic workin’ on some _truly_ unsettling biotech _,_ ‘stead of my own gorram ship. If you don’t like what help we’ve been, my doc can take back his stitches and we can leave you to _chiu se, dohn luh ma?”_

“Cap’n?” Kaylee asks.

“ _Dohn luh ma?”_ Mal repeats, then realizes that Baltar probably _doesn’t_ understand. “Are we _clear_ , here?”

“I - I think I have the gist of it, yes.” Baltar answers, chastened but still prickly. “I’m grateful for whatever help you can render, Captain Reynolds. Please, let your mechanic do what she can; we can figure out some arrangement later, I’m sure. You have my word on it.”

“Go, Kaylee.” She nods and returns to her work. The room is quiet for a while, punctuated by Kaylee’s conversational mutters towards the machinery.

“Tell me about Earth,” Baltar says, tipping his head to the side and staring up at Mal with an unreadable expression. “Tell me what happened to your people.”

“Wasn’t much for schoolin’,” Mal replies, but leans on the wall next to Baltar, one eye on the door and the other on Kaylee’ progress. “Like River said, Earth got used up. Too many people and not enough room, so we left and reshaped the planets we found. Settled in for a bit, makin’ do with the essentials, tryin’ to build up frontier land into proper homes. Not too long ago, the Core Planets - the ones with the most coin and the _very best_ of intentions,” Mal’s voice drips with sarcasm, “-decide they know best for the others, and we had ourselves a _disagreement_.”

“We,” Baltar echoes. “I take it you’re more of an independent thinker, then.”

Mal nods, trying to keep his voice level and his words sparse. “Didn’t do me much good. Alliance won, and I’m tryin’ to do my best to stay free.”

“That’s what you meant, by _Alliance_ ,” Baltar muses. “Is it so wrong, to want unity? To want peace?”

“Alliance defines peace a bit different,” Mal says, catching Baltar’s eye to make his point clear. “I’m sure you understand. Sounds like the ‘peace’ the Cylons offered on your refugee colony wasn’t much different.” Baltar turns his face away.

They’re silent again, after that.

***

Kaylee’s as good as her word, and the Hybrid’s motion is a little more spirited in the tank not much later. Zoe enters, River in her wake, and flicks the barest glance over at the engineer before coming up to Mal.

“Found the hangar deck, sir. Nice mess o’birds for Kaylee to scope out, soon as she’s done here.”

Mal nods. “Any of the others wake up yet?”

“No sir, resting peaceful, the lot of ‘em. We found more, brought ‘em up,” she replies, then looks at Baltar. “What’s the word?”

He takes her aside and gives her the quick version. Robots, and war, and profit to be had if they’re careful.

“ _Walking toasters_ ,” she muses, looking at the Hybrid. River’s sitting next to Baltar, mirroring his pose and just _staring_ at him. Mal can see the man’s skin crawl from where he stands, and lets himself smile, a little. “You sure about this, Captain? Seems like another ugly minefield we’ve tripped into, you don’t mind me saying.”

“Walked away from the others, didn’t we?” He attempts a reassuring smile.

“Not all of us, sir,” she reminds, quiet, and he wants to reach out, but-

“-woo, gotcha!” Kaylee crows, and Mal trots over to see what a functional Hybrid looks like, Zoe, River, and Doctor Baltar close on his heels.

This is what a working Hybrid does, for the record:

Surge out of the tank, gasping for air, eyes wide and shocked,

Scream _‘JUMP’_ in a voice that rattles your sternum,

Turn out the lights.

Mal couldn’t tell you any more’n that, because the deck rushes up and the black swallows him whole, after.

***

“Quiet. He’s waking,” a woman’s voice says at his side. There’s a cool, gentle hand on his forehead, but his head aches like a sonofagun and his limbs are tingling in a way that’s unpleasantly familiar.

“Inara?” Mal asks, cracking his eyes open to squint at the silhouette above him. The light behind her lances through his skull, and he winces. “What happened?”

“My name is Tory Foster,” the woman says, removing her hand and shifting to block the light. He recognizes her, the brown-skinned woman with black hair; there’s others in the room, too, multiple copies of some staring at him with curiosity, puzzlement, and something like awe. He sits up, uncomfortable under the scrutiny, and realizes that they took his gun. “You should rest,” Tory continues. “The Hybrid sent a power surge through the deck to restart our systems-” she looks over her shoulder at one of the tall blonde women, “-which I didn’t think was possible…”

“All things are possible,” one of the men says. “And Captain Reynolds here is proof.” He steps forward and offers Mal his hand. “Welcome aboard. You can call me Leoben.”

Mal takes it and shakes; the man’s - _Cylon’s_ \- grip is firm, but warm. After that, there’s a flurry of introductions, names for some but numbers for most, and he resigns himself to not knowing the difference between copies for a bit. He knows the ones with names talk more, so he turns back to Tory (still the only one of her kind as far as he sees). “Now that the formalities are through, I’d like my effects returned-” He nods to his gun, on a table across the room, “-and then I’d like t’see my crew and my ship. In that order, and preferably all in one piece. And when I’m done there, I’ll be happy to talk business with you folks.”

“Ah, Captain Reynolds,” a new voice says from the door, and the Cylons part like water, like grass, like flesh, to make way for her, “you’ve only just woken up from what I hear is a very nasty shock for a human body.” Mal recognizes her, from earlier; she’d been in the Hybrid room, lying next to Baltar. _D’Anna_ , he remembers; ‘ _the only one left_ ,’ Baltar had said. The way the others look at her, she’s in charge, and he knows by the way she smiles that he’ll have to stay sharp to come out with anything close to a fair deal.

“Ma’am, I appreciate your consideration for my well-bein’, but I really must insist,” Mal replies, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing, teeth grit in what he hopes passes for a look of determination, not a wince. No one helps him or moves to stop him.

“Fine,” D’Anna says brusquely, smile fading a notch. “But I’m afraid we can’t allow you or your crew to carry weapons on our ship. They’ll be returned to you if and when you decide to leave.”

Mal nods, even though it galls him, glad of confirmation that his bullets could hurt them. Sure, and a bullet through their Hybrid’s head might just cripple the whole ship. Cheerful contingencies work themselves out in his head as D’Anna leads him out of the room and to his crew.

***

There are two tinmen at the end of the corridor - not a good sign, and Mal slows and stops before drawing close, giving the Centurions a wary look.

They creak their heads a fraction and stare back.

“Don’t worry about those two, Captain,” D’Anna says brightly, “We reset their programming, so we shouldn’t have a repeat of our earlier… misfortune. I reassure you, you’re our honored guests here.”

“If you say so,” Mal mutters, walking past them with shoulders drawn tight. They go up a spiral staircase and emerge in a hangar deck that makes _Serenity_ look like a toy, tucked in a near corner. There’s some kind of fleshy webbing over her landing struts, and he adds that factor into any plans.

What’s really impressive are the other ships, some curved and gleaming like scythes, some squat and utilitarian, all in numbers that decide his mind on what the best outcomes are: make a deal and get out quick, or just get out. Not an easy proposition, either way.

“Your second-in-command insisted that your crew stay aboard your own ship instead of guest quarters, as soon as they woke up - even wanted you all moved while unconscious, but our infirmary is better stocked,” D’Anna says. Mal doesn’t want to know why a mostly-Cylon ship is carrying high-end med supplies for humans, but he does regret not bein’ present for the conversation between D’Anna and Zoe. “We have a few hours, so don’t take too long. I’m interested in finding out what your _business_ is.” She shoots him another shark’s grin as she descends the stairs, gone before he can ask: _a few hours before what?_

“Mal!” River shouts from _Serenity_ , rushing down the gangplank like it’s her birthday and he’s got a pony. He manages to brace himself before she leaps onto him, but bruised bones and near-fried muscles can handle only so much. He sets her down gentle and turns to the rest of his crew.

***

The accounts are patchy, but it falls out something like this:

The Cylon/Human fleet had been attacked by the _other_ Cylons in the Earth system. In order to evade several missiles well on their way to destroy this ship, the Hybrid jumped - apparently at random, but River says something about bows and arrows and destiny, so maybe not - though at least one missile hit, if not more, to judge by the damage the ship and its crew took.

Mal wishes he knew more about what sent the Cylons to sleep or how the Centurions turned against their masters (just for future reference, say), but no one had asked. Not like he expected the Cylons to answer, should it come up. Some questions are a bit _delicate_ to be askin’ new acquaintances.

When they’d fixed the Hybrid, she jumped the ship - _Serenity_ holdin’ tight the whole way - back to Earth’s system to rejoin (or rescue, or _mourn,_ which is Mal’s bet) the rest of the Colonial Fleet, and sent the power surge through the deck that had woken up her crew but knocked _Serenity’s_ out. Mal spares a thought to Baltar’s health, but not for long when he hears that they’re out of Cortex range.

After he gets through cussin’ some, Mal changes into fresher clothes, and orders Zoe, Simon, and River to do the same. “You two,” he tells Jayne and Kaylee, “take a look around the deck, find out what you can. Closest airlock or port, system controls, the works. We come running in here with tinmen on our heels, or I call mayday, you better have us a way out.”

Jayne nods, clearly pleased at being in charge of findin’ options that mean _away,_ so long as Mal brings back their guns. Kaylee plucks the sleeve at Mal’s elbow and says, quiet, “Mal, we’re in a system we know nothin’ about with near bingo fuel. I don’t know what I can promise outta her.”

“I know,” he replies. “But it ain’t hurtin’ us to try. Like as not, they got fuel ports somewhere close if their hangar decks work like ours.”

“Long as their fuel don’t burn through the tank,” Kaylee grumbles, already walking back to his ship. Shame he doesn’t have more comforting words to offer, but she knows by now that’s not his strong suit. He turns to find the other three presentable enough, and leads the way to the control room of the Cylon’s ship.

***

“Ah, good, you’re just in time,” D’Anna says when they arrive, beaming brightly. “We’ve just established contact with our Fleet. We should rejoin them shortly.”

Zoe’s eyebrow is crawling north. “Sounds like good news,” Mal replies. “Glad t’hear your people survived.”

“Not all of them,” an Eight says, shooting a worried look at D’Anna. “Damage stands at… Only two-thirds of ships and personnel remain, at first estimate. More accurate reports are still being compiled.”

“Any sign of the attackers?” Mal asks.

“Not that we can tell,” Eight replies. “There are several planets in the system, not counting smaller planetoids and asteroid belts. Any one of them could be hiding a scout ship.”

“But they wouldn’t have left unless they were finished here, would they?” Simon asks. Mal sends him a look that means _pipe down_ , but Simon just frowns back. Seems Mal needs to give the man a quick run-down on when he gets to talk during business meetings.

“We don’t know. As soon as we rejoin the Fleet, we’ll assess the damage and prepare to jump to your sector. With the help of your people, I’m sure we’ll be fine.” D’Anna seems too calm, but that could be her programming.

“About that…” Mal says, uneasily. Last thing he wants is to jump into Alliance hands with a bunch of unknowns.

“Oh, Gaius told me about your history. It shouldn’t be a problem - we’re more than willing to bargain for what information you can provide, then let you go your own way before we make contact with your government. No harm done, strictly business. You might even come out with a few more friends than you expected.” The shark’s smile is back.

She thinks she’s got him pegged, so Mal plays the role. “Well, that _would_ be mighty fine of you.” He nods agreeably, and sees Zoe tryin’ not to smile out of the corner of his eye. “Whatever we can do to help.”

“It’s more than that,” one of the Sixes says, eyes intent as she comes up to them. “You are descendents of the Thirteenth Tribe of Kobol. Have your people _forgotten_ what that _means_?”

“Ma’am,” Zoe speaks up before Mal can say something he’ll regret, her voice quiet and firm. “Let me tell you something about your gorram ‘Thirteenth Tribe.’ They fouled up their first planet and sent their children out into the ‘verse to try again - with not much more’n what they could carry on their backs. What most of us know is how to survive, and anyone who wants to know more learns only what the Alliance tidies up to spoon-feed ‘em.” Simon looks like he’s about to say somethin’ to this, so Mal shoots him a look he can’t mistake. “So if we’ve forgotten _your_ legends, I’m sorry, but at least we’re alive to help you folks out.”

The whole room is still, seems like, as Six and Zoe stare each other down.

“ _Go hwong tong_ ,” River says, staring up into the flickering displays that light the room.

“What did she say?” A Leoben asks, watching her as she watches the code shifting.

“To be quiet,” Simon says absently, going up to his sister, embracing her gingerly and looking over her shoulder as if he’ll see what she does. “What is it, _mei mei?”_

River tips her gaze sideways at D’Anna without moving her head. “You never saw the last face, in the Opera House. You pretend like you know, but you’re just scared of the black in the box.”

D’Anna goes ashen. “How-?”

“She sees the patterns, like the Hybrid,” a Leoben answers. “Like an Oracle.”

“Tell us who the last one is,” Six says, forgetting Zoe and stalking over to River. “Tell us and we’ll pay any sum you ask.”

“I don’t know his name, here,” River replies, shrugging off her brother’s hands and the Six’s demanding glare in one fluid motion. “But _Serenity_ knows his face.”

“Simon-?” Mal starts, but knows even before Simon looks up at him and shrugs that the doc’s got no clue what River’s saying. Six steps up to Simon and fists hands in his once-white shirt, above his best brocade vest, lifting him to his feet and then higher.

“ _Do you know who she’s talking about?”_ Six demands, all feral, gritted teeth and corded muscles that Mal would have sworn her skinny frame didn’t have a minute ago. Before anyone else moves, River’s foot catches the Six in the back of her knee, and all three go down. When they hit the deck, River’s boot is at Six’s neck.

“Seven for a _secret_ ,” River declares, repeating a line from the counting-song. “God’s will cannot be _forced_.” D’Anna waves off the Centurions at the doorway, and the Six nods, scowling darkly.

River lets her go.

Mal releases his own hands’ iron grip, ‘round his empty holster and Zoe’s wrist. She eases back, glancing at him while chafing the skin he’d pinched. He shrugs. It’s not as if River can’t take care of herself - but he didn’t place good odds against the roomful of Cylons, if they all could pick up a man as easy as Six had lifted Simon.

“My apologies for that, Captain Reynolds,” D’Anna says, smooth as silk but smile less certain. “I assure you that _will not happen again.”_ The Six drops her head and slips out of the room silently, shoulders hunched. Mal sees her hand flex into a fist when she reaches the corridor, and prays none of his folk run into her again anytime soon. No way of telling.

“Here’s hoping,” Mal answers. They have _got_ to get off this gorram ship soon as possible.

“Do you know what your girl was talking about, anyway?”

“Usually don’t. But if that offer of _‘any sum we ask’_ is still on the table, I’ll do my very best to find out for you.” He does his best to mirror D’Anna’s former shark-smile back at her.

Before she can answer, another ship from the Fleet is callin’ over to set up a rendezvous. D’Anna tries to discourage their Admiral from inviting _Serenity’s_ crew to the _Galactica_ \- but apparently ‘the President insists.’

“I never was one to refuse such a graciousinvitation, was I, Zo’?” Mal says in a less-than-quiet aside. D’Anna frowns at his apparent eagerness to leave her ship. He figures meeting these other leaders in the Fleet will give him a better picture of what he’s dealin’ with - or another bidder for _Serenity’s_ services.

“No, sir, much to the dismay of those doin’ the invitin’,” she replies in a murmur. “Think I ought to find out their dueling policies before we go, sir? I just want to know if I ought pack the pistols or the foil.”

“Have I mentioned how much I appreciate your unflagging confidence in my abilities?” He grins back, even though the reference makes his side twinge some. He could use Inara’s help here, and he sends yet another in a long sequence of curses towards the man who’d contracted her ‘services’ for a _month_. She’d never promised to quit, when things had eased up some between them, but why she couldn’t just keep teaching was beyond him. (It’s never occurred to him, though, that her teaching duties and her ‘active Companion’ duties were not dissimilar.)

It _does_ occur to him that in going to _Galactica_ , he might simply be getting himself and his crew deeper into this mess, but sometimes the shortest way out is through.

“Have your crew prepare to transfer to _Galactica_ ,” D’Anna says, after she and the comms officer have finished their back-and-forth. “I expect to continue our negotiations before the Fleet jumps to Alliance space, on whichever ship is convenient. Is that agreeable?”

“Shiny,” Mal replies, “And by the by, we’ll want our arms returned before we lift.”

“I’m afraid the _Galactica_ cannot hold a ship of your size,” D’Anna says so smooth that he knows it’s a lie. “We’ll all go in one of our vessels.”

“I don’t mind parking up next to her. I just mind leavin’ my ship behind. You can come along if you like, or use one of your transports, don’t make no difference, so long as our property’s returned to us.” Mal turns to go, and his folk fall in behind. “Make whatever arrangements you please.”

***

Turns out, _Galactica_ happens to have a hold free, which surprises Mal none but relieves him a bit, as external docking procedures take up more fuel than _Serenity_ can afford. D’Anna and Tory come along for the ride, bringing two secured crates of weapons with them. “We’ll unlock the crates when we arrive safely,” a Six says when Jayne protests. “The rest of our representatives will go in one of our ships.”

A whole honor guard looks to have turned out for their arrival. Mal eyes the spit-shined troops warily, but spots frayed edges and patched seams among some uniforms and eases a bit. He recognizes military discipline enduring in hardship when he sees it, and shares a sympathetic glance with Zoe. Any commander keeping these folks together is likely someone he can deal with, without the hidden snares and edges the Cylons seem to harbor.

His suspicions are reinforced when he’s introduced to the Admiral himself, a scar-faced man with wise and wary eyes. Beside him is his second, bearing a ramrod spine and an eyepatch, and a dark, glossy-haired woman with a bright, inquisitive gaze behind a pair of spectacles. She’s introduced as the President of the Colonies, and seems genuinely happy to see _Serenity’s_ crew - mark of a good politician, Mal thinks, and he _really_ wishes Inara were there to help.

“On behalf of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol,” President Roslin says, formal and solemn for the history books, “Welcome to our Fleet, descendants of the Thirteenth Tribe.”

“So say we all,” Admiral Adama concurs, and the whole deck rocks with the cheering of the troops. After that, it’s all flashbulbs and jumbled introductions until _finally_ someone suggests a smaller venue.

Mal’s crew keeps close behind him, and he can hear Simon alternately soothing Kaylee’s embarrassment and River’s jumpy nerves under the scrutiny of all the onlookers lining the halls. “Noun,” River says, catching up close to Mal’s boot-heels. “Meaning a small, fierce mammal with claws and stripes.”

“What?” he says, conversation too loud around them to catch her meaning.

“Also a verb, meaning to bother, annoy, pester,” she continues, urgency coloring her tone. He turns to look over his shoulder at her and spots a man in sunglasses, leaning in a doorway casual and curious like all the rest, and Mal suddenly knows what she’s trying to say.

“ _Badger_ ,” he says quiet, and River nods.

“Five for silver,” she says, “Six for gold. Seven for a secret, _never been told.”_

Some things remain a constant in Malcolm Reynold’s life. He’s got his ship, his coat, his second, and his gun. T’other constant? Things never go smooth; all the more true when _River’s making sense_.

"Well, that's just _extra_ shiny, innit?" he says, rueful and resigned.

 

 

 

\- end -


End file.
